was.

After knocking about all over the north of France seemingly, we
brought up at Canchy of a Sunday afternoon. Here the whole brigade,
four battalions, had church parade, and after that the band played
ragtime and the officers had a gabfest and compared medals, on top
of which we were soaked with two hours' steady drill. We were at
Canchy ten days, and they gave it to us good and plenty. We would
drill all day and after dark it would be night 'ops. Finally so
many men were going to the doctor worn out that he ordered a whole
day and a half of rest.

Mr. Blofeld on Saturday night suggested that, as we were going into
the Somme within a few weeks, the non-coms ought to have a little
blow-out. It would be the last time we would all ever be together.
He furnished us with all the drinkables we could get away with,
including some very choice Johnny Walker. There was a lot of
canned stuff, mostly sardines. Mr. Blofeld loaned us the officers'
phonograph.

It was a large, wet night. Everybody made a speech or sang a song,
and we didn't go home until morning. It was a farewell party, and
we went the limit. If there is one thing that the Britisher does
better than another, it is getting ready to die. He does it with a
smile,--and he dies with a laugh.

Poor chaps! Nearly all of them are pushing up the daisies somewhere
in France. Those who are not are, with one or two exceptions, out
of the army with broken bodies.